


Cause of Depth

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Alternate Universe - Police, Angst, Blow Jobs, Detective Dean, Discussion Of Murder, Fingerfucking, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Medical Examiner Sam, Never Hunted, Sharing a Bed, Unsolved Cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kansas City M.E. Sam Wesson lives a lonely life by choice—it's easier to keep his head down and play by the rules than it is to take a chance. The sudden interest of one of the city's detectives forces him to reconsider, however, after a string of cases bring Sam and Detective Dean Winchester together more and more frequently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause of Depth

**Author's Note:**

> So, annabeth said, "SAM IN SCRUBS!" to which I agreed and said, "YES PLEASE." Then, I wrote a simple story to which joans23 and earthquakedream said "more plot, please!" and I couldn't say no to that either. Be careful what you wish for! So I present a mostly self-indulgent AU fic. Yeah, maybe I've written one too many legal/crime AU's in my fandom tenure, but I can't help that they make me ridiculously happy. Many thanks to the aforementioned trio, and especially joans23 who guided me through when all I could see was a mountain of fail.
> 
> Originally posted to LJ: November 2009

"...A case of dermatopathia pigmentosa reticularis."

"Bless you?"

Sam Wesson looks up. There's a scratch over Detective Winchester's face, straight across his cheekbone. Sam pushes his autopsy shield up and the plexiglass blemish disappears.

"No, it's a genetic defect," he quickly clarifies and clicks off his recorder.

Even after nearly a year of coming down to autopsy, Winchester won't come within five feet of Sam's table when it's occupied. Sometimes he thinks there are wear marks in the floor from the detective's feet—a line he can't cross. But Winchester seems to be patient man unlike so many of his older colleagues; he doesn't rush in with a case going sour and an attitude to match—a fact that Sam respects despite only getting to know the other man in ten minute increments.

"What's a defect?" Winchester is on his tip-toes, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of anything tell-tale on the medical examiner's latest visitor. His brown tie is slightly askew and doesn't match the powder blue shirt stretched across his shoulders. "The demento-phobia thing?"

"Dermatopathia pig—"

"Yeah, that." Winchester snaps, crack of his fingers echoing around the room.

"It's a rare anomaly that leaves its carrier, in this case John Doe number one-seventy-three," Sam indicates, "without fingerprints."

There's a pause, then Winchester scowls half-heartedly.

"You're yanking my chain, dude. Right?"

"Afraid not," Sam counters, but he can't hide his enthusiasm for the rare disorder even though the detective probably won't appreciate the find. Too bad, it really is fascinating. One of Sam's former mentors would love to see duplicates of all his documentation later...

"Great." The detective rubs his face, showing off shirtsleeves wrinkled from a shift that's been capped by yet another homicide.

"Oh, and it was a homicide, for the record," Sam adds before he gets carried away and forgets the real reason the detective's here.

Winchester groans. "Thanks, Doc."

It's a strange thing to be thanked for, confirmation of murder, and further adding to the detective's caseload. But Sam grins sincerely over his y-incision anyway. He doesn't hear 'thanks' all that often and it's nice.

"You're welcome."

Winchester's brow quirks but he doesn't say anything. Sam clicks the shield back in place and picks up his camera, no time for pleasantries or any other measure of conversation. The detective hovers silently for a few minutes—something else that makes him stand out among the ranks of the K.C.P.D.—and watches Sam move around the mortuary table taking snapshots to catalog John Doe's extremities and extensive wounds. Sam chalks it up to Winchester being thorough.

But the quiet attention while Sam's circling a naked dead man is a _little_ awkward.

"Did you need anything else?"

"Nope." Winchester sways back on his heels. "I'm gonna go chase down a witness," he adds pointedly like Sam's his keeper and he needs an excuse to leave the perpetually cool room. "Let me know if you get anything else we can use for identification?"

"Will do, Detective."

The pressurized doors slide shut behind him and Sam turns back to the unfortunate man on his table.

@@@

Sam's gotten used to being misunderstood. It's not arrogance that puts distance between him and his family, college buddies, or fair-weather friends. It's just fact. His parents didn't understand why his medical degree didn't equal a prestigious hospital position. The friends still sticking from his days at Penn State never know what to say about his job, and the friends he counts now never bring it up. All fine and good; Sam is always hard pressed to explain why he chose to be a pathologist as opposed to a physician. Picked corpses and cops over kids and lollipops. Mostly, it's his professional life running him ragged that prevents Sam from dwelling on his social life.

He's haunted the Kansas City, Missouri Coroner's Office for two years, only twenty eight when he fled Philadelphia after the bodies and reminders built up too high. The weather sucks—miserably hot in the summer and miserably cold in the winter—and Sam's got the same bodies to contend with, the same cops to work around, but moving meant a clean slate and a fresh start.

Some days it's not worth it. This isn't the career Sam imagined when he was younger and impressionable, reading about heroes in the criminal justice system with an eager eye and open mind. He wishes it could be different, that he made a difference instead of just being another source of frustration for detectives when an autopsy doesn't yield as many easy clues as they were expecting. On bad days, Sam is as terse and stubborn with the detectives as they are with him. He's sick of being a _tool_ —a computer spitting back information to heavy-jowled men with tarnished badges and forged physicals. Used, berated, and barely tolerated.

It's a job, and Sam is good at it. Paychecks coming as regular as new bodies, which is more than so many people can say these days. But it's a lonely job, too. The people Sam spends the most time with can never talk back. Plenty of investigators and techs roam the building, but inside Sam's head it is another story.

And then there's Detective Winchester. _Dean_ Winchester, Sam remembers from their first introduction after the detective transferred in. He doesn't know the man well beyond a hint dropped here and there, but it's enough to make Sam admire him more than he does most. Never an undeserving harsh word for 'Doc' Wesson; Dean doesn't blame his own failures on Sam, or hoard credit when an autopsy uncovers case-breaking evidence. Simple things making a dramatic impact. 

Sam shouldn't be considering Winchester in anything beyond a professional capacity. Personal connections mean complications—Sam has learned that lesson well. He left scars in the City of Brotherly Love to prove it. But the thoughts creep up. Every time the detective thanks him or grins his goofy-happy smile, Sam starts rethinking his 'professional distance'. Maybe it's time to find a warm connection in the cold latticework of life and death.

Maybe Dean Winchester will be different.

@@@

"French fry?"

Winchester holds the greasy bag out to Sam.

"No, thanks."

The detective shrugs and drops the bag on the smallest of multiple stacks of papers obliterating his desk. He motions for Sam to grab a seat across from him. Sam watches the journey of thin, salty potatoes from Winchester's fingers to his mouth, a few crumbs dropping onto his already less-than-immaculate shirt and tie.

"Did you know that the average human body contains enough fat to make seven bars of soap?"

The detective chokes. Sam is saved from performing the Heimlich maneuver since Winchester recovers, coughing and glaring.

"Thank you," Sam can hear the snip. "I needed to know that."

"Well, I said average." Winchester _is_ average, Sam thinks. At least his body is. Slightly above average height and far from overweight. Sure, he should probably lay off the french fries for a while—not that Sam is going to tell an armed man what he should and shouldn't eat—but who's perfect? And Dean is built, not substantially so, but enough to make him a threat on the force. No reason for him to act offended. So Sam adds, "the body I worked on yesterday could have easily made twice that."

Now Winchester turns green, a shade matching the throwback avocado chair Sam is sitting in. The detective dumps the greasy bag in the trashcan and smiles a little painfully at Sam.

"Toxicology panel on Mr. Hawkins," Sam changes the subject, handing over the report he's been clutching. "Figured I'd drop it off while I was here."

Winchester takes a quick scan through the sheets then tosses the folder aside with a disappointed grunt. "Nothing new there."

"I know, I'm sorry." Sam stops himself from questioning the fact that he apologizes a lot around Winchester. He wonders if he should say something encouraging but there are too many pairs of eyes around them and Sam can't think of anything that won't sound awkward.

"Anything on our John Doe?"

_Our_ John Doe.

"Sorry," Sam says again before he can stop himself. "I sent out a profile to some local dentists, but I haven't heard anything back."

"DNA?"

"It's in the lab's hands now. God knows when they'll get their approval and actually run it." They're at a dead end and Sam knows it, but he doesn't want to be the one tamping out the hope in Dean's eyes. "When I get back, I can put together a few details for you—age, probable living conditions, any environmental evidence I was able to catalog. It may give you something to narrow your scopes."

Winchester nods and sighs; Sam knows it's a weak offer, but it's something. The detective takes another look around the crowded squadroom before his eyes come back to Sam, considering.

"You're not in scrubs today."

Sam looks down at his plain gray suit, this ensemble much less comfortable. 

"I don't live in scrubs, you know." Winchester snorts. "And I have to be in court in an hour. I just came up to ride over with Detective Sturgis."

He gets a sympathy nod—no one in the city's criminal justice complex enjoys court dates. All their hard work and investigation put on the line, fodder for overpaid lawyers to tear apart.

"Good luck then," the detective says just as someone calls out from across the room.

"Hey, Dean!" A stocky man with a wrestler's build and a biker's goatee waves. James Avila, Winchester's partner. "Got a call back from that landlord—he said our guy just showed up. Let's head over."

"Sorry, I gotta run," Winchester pulls a worn leather jacket over his shoulders, suddenly looking every inch the part of the crime-novel heroes in Sam's favorite books—ragged but noble, ceaselessly pounding the pavement for truth and justice. "But hey, Sam—"

It's one of the first times Winchester has bothered to call him anything besides 'Doc' and it makes him smile—something he's starting to do a lot around the detective.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have a few minutes to go over the Foster double homicide with me later?"

Sam doesn't, not really. He probably shouldn't have even offered to do the extra work with their John Doe; the city brings in more bodies than its four pathologists can ever hope to get a handle on.

"Sure," Sam agrees against his better judgment. It almost feels worth it when the detective grins. "I'll let you know when I'm out of court."

"Hey, I appreciate it," Winchester says as Avila impatiently comes over and drags his partner out of the squadroom.

"Same here," Sam adds to no one in particular. Then to the absent detective, "Good luck to you too."

@@@

"You ever talk to them?"

Sam looks up from his laptop and glances around the room. 

"To whom?"

Winchester nods towards the wall of metal cabinets. Sam gets it and starts to smile, but the detective looks completely serious.

"Why would I?"

"Doesn't it get lonely down here?"

"No," Sam answers straightforwardly, not bothering to add that autopsy can get unusually crowded. 

His office is a tiny space—probably a converted closet—but everywhere else there are techs, cops, crime scene workers, and detectives coming and going. And for the last week or so since Sam's court appearance, Winchester's been a fixture around here: picking up reports in person, coming over with questions instead of calling whoever happens to be on-duty. Winchester has been around so much that Sam overheard Delia, one of their techs, ask him out for coffee yesterday. Sam didn't stick around to hear the answer, but the detective showed up late this afternoon with two fresh cups of caffeine and a recently reopened cold case for them to chew on. Their John Doe case is at a standstill—no I.D. despite their best efforts, and Winchester thought Sam might be able to help him with the old case instead.

"Figured you guys might all have that 'talking' thing going on," Winchester continues, embellishing with air-quotes. "You know, like you see on those cop shows. Empathizing with the victim, making things easier and a little more personal."

"They don't talk back, you know."

Winchester pauses mid-sip, white lid perched on his lower lip and green eyes narrowing to discern if Sam is serious.

"Yeah, but I meant—" He stops and reconsiders. "Nevermind."

There's a quick moment of awkward silence before Sam points to Dean's papers.

"So, Doctor Snipes performed that autopsy before my time."

"Right." Winchester's focus shifts to the old blue murder book. "But I figured a fresh look couldn't hurt."

Half an hour later the coffee's finished but Sam's only midway through an explanation of the various wounds and translating the former pathologist's notes. They're alone by the time Winchester closes the book and rubs his eyes. Sam can't hold back a yawn—exhaustion can be contagious.

"You know you're more likely to die from sleep deprivation than starvation?" Winchester points out.

"Yes." Sam nods, and surprisingly the detective laughs, lightening the atmosphere of the claustrophobic room.

"Of course you do. Can't even remember where I heard that."

"Probably from me." Sam's nothing if not a font of sometimes useless knowledge layered on top of extensive training. His friends never have trouble reminding him.

But Winchester doesn't stop smiling, though his eyelids are weighed down with the late hour. Sam hadn't really noticed the time rushing by.

"I should get going if I want to get more than four hours of sleep." The detective's stomach growls audibly. He looks at Sam and makes an unexpected offer. "Um, are you hungry? There's this great diner around the corner from my place, and a meal's the least I can do for making you stay here with me."

It's a casual question, a gesture of good will after a long day, though there may be more hidden behind it. Sam's surprised to find himself wanting to say yes, but the stacks of work waiting back in his office force him to say the opposite.

"Maybe some other time? I still have a few things I need to finish here before I head home. Can I—" Sam's not sure if his intentions match Winchester's, but he asks anyway. "How about a rain check?"

"Yeah—yeah that sounds good. I'll catch you later, Doc."

"Good night, Detective."

The doors stop and Winchester turns around. 

"You can call me Dean, you know."

He meets the detective's eyes over the laptop screen.

"I didn't know," Sam answers as if it were a question.

Winchester— _Dean_ —chuckles low and tucks his folders tighter underneath his arm. 

"Night, Sam."

@@@

Dean holds him to the rain check. He asks Sam to join him just about every time he goes out for the next week and a half. The detective drops by the coroner's office when he's coming back to the precinct, heading out to court, or returning from lunch. He gets dragged to Dean's diner and it lives up to its reputation. On the days Dean doesn't stop over, Sam finds some excuse to walk to the police complex, like seeing Dean has become a daily requirement. Behavioral conditioning at its best.

It doesn't matter if Dean's tired or if Sam has been buried in the worst examples of human cruelty all day. Winchester always has a smile for Sam and he likes it. More than likes—Sam's starting to depend on it.

They don't really know each other but they're collecting pieces every day. Sam knows how Dean takes his coffee, the top five reasons he hates watching baseball, and exactly what the detective can stomach from the city cafeteria. He's also figured out that Dean gives one hundred and ten percent of himself to every case. The detective would rather work than go home, and he admires deeds and commitment over reputation and arrogance. 

Dean's dedication is on full display tonight despite the late hour. He and Avila showed up along with the latest body, both bone-weary and yawning.

"Go home, Jimmy," Dean gripes when his partner yawns for the fifth time in as many minutes. "I can finish up with the Doc here."

"You sure?" Avila asks even though Sam can already see the relief in his eyes. "You've already put in double hours on the John Doe, Dean. I can stay."

"And a lot of good it's done us," Dean sighs. "Seriously, get out of here, man. Abby'll be glad to have you home and helping with the kids instead of shirking your fatherly duties."

Avila escapes without much more than token protests, leaving Sam and Dean alone again in the vacuous room. Dean's partner is a good detective, but so very different from Dean at the same time; Sam's glad it's just the two of them.

"So what else can you tell me, Sammy?"

And there's something else that is new; Sam scowls at Dean's nickname.

"Look at the patterns of the perimortem bruising." Dean stays about three feet away from Sam's cold, metal table and the newest pale corpse laid out on it. At least there's been a little progress. "That's most likely from a hand holding this man's face like so." Sam demonstrates on himself, forcing his neck back. "Not to mention all the other injuries he sustained prior to his death. If not the day of, then at most two or three days before."

"Defensive wounds?"

"Not as many as you'd think. There are a few possibilities, but look at this—" Sam lifts the body's arm from the table, clear mottled markings around the bicep. "I think he was most likely restrained."

Dean sighs. "So you're telling me—"

"I don't believe this man willingly administered that much cocaine by himself."

"Shit."

"Sorry." There he goes again.

"I was kinda hoping this would be an overdose and we'd catch a break sometime this decade."

Sam's been run ragged too, so he gets it. It's been an unceasing parade of homicide and trauma for Sam, scumbags and sob-stories for Dean.

"I could shift this to someone else," he offers, already knowing Dean won't accept. The case became his responsibility the moment he was called to the scene. Just as he suspects, Dean shakes his head as Sam covers the body with a crisp, white cloth. Out of sight...well, just out of sight. Never out of mind.

"That's all I've got for you right now." Sam starts initialing and dating the table full of samples divided amongst vials, envelopes, and jars. "I'll let you know more tomorrow?"

Dean blinks. "Sure."

By clicking off the large, halogen lights, Sam dims the shadows on Dean's face.

"Dean." The detective blinks again. "Go home and get some sleep."

From Dean's smile, Sam knows he's being humored. "Yeah, I will. Just gotta track down a few things first," he says like Sam doesn't know Dean will stick around and work until night blurs into morning. Avila may realize that Dean puts in more hours, but Sam doubts he knows the true extent of Dean's overtime. But Sam doesn't say a thing. Dean's job—well, it's everything Sam can't understand, isn't sure he wants to. Sam brokers in the absolute, the unflinching definitions that science and skill provide. Dean lives in the world of gray where motives, means, and opportunities form a thick, muddled soup of human behavior. Sam is the _how_ ; Dean is the _why_.

It's on the tip of Sam's tongue—an offer to stay, if only for company. But Sam knows he'll be useless tomorrow without sleep. And Dean knows it too. Wouldn't let him hang around even if he offered.

So he watches Dean go, something like concern tinged with admiration settling deep, and already making a mental note to bring extra coffee and granola—not that Dean will consume anything besides coffee—in the morning.

@@@

"Do you watch much football?"

"Huh?"

Dean had mimed throwing a perfect spiral.

"Oh, I guess." Sam had lied. "I mean, if you like to watch grown men laboring up and down a field in excruciatingly slow increments."

Honestly, Dean had pulled a face that made him look like one of those freaky bug-eyed goldfish; he just _gaped_.

"I'm kidding—" he'd finally said, hoping Dean's face wasn't going to freeze like that. "Just tell me you're not a Chiefs fan."

"Hell no, I usually pull for the Saints." Dean had laughed then. "Feel like coming over on Sunday to veg out with the NFL Ticket all afternoon? I can only promise beer and bad commentary..."

And that's how Sam finds himself at Dean's modest condo on Sunday night, both promises fulfilled. They've worked their way through a six-pack while Dean's shouted some ridiculous taunts at the TV as the Chiefs fail to rally against the Chargers. Sam didn't expect this to be awkward, but he's really glad to be right. It's the first time he's hung out with Dean so casually, changed up from their recent routine of diner runs, campfire consultations in Sam's office or at the precinct. The early verdict—Sam's having a good time.

Halftime brings a lull in the largely game-driven conversation. Dean grabs bottles from a fresh six-pack before lowering the volume on the commentators.

"What made you want to be a detective?" Sam figures it's a question every cop gets asked, but he's never gotten the chance.

"Pulling out the heavy questions, huh?" Dean jokes. Sam grins, caught, and watches Dean's expression soften with memory. "My Dad was a cop—twenty two years on the force. And he loved it—made me love it _and_ respect it," he adds fondly. "It's the only job I could ever imagine doing. Gave Kansas State a try, but that didn't stick. I wanted to catch bad guys and my Dad understood. He never gave me a hard time about joining the force. I think it made him proud, passing on what he knew to his kid."

Dean trails off and shrugs. Sam doesn't want to overstep, but he wants to know more about his friend, fill in the gaps and build a complete picture.

"What happened to your parents?"

"My Mom died when I was in high school," answers Dean with a dissociative tone that tells Sam he's used to saying it—the kind of tone that comes with distant memories.

"And your Dad?"

"Heart attack, three years ago." Sharper now, a memory that hasn't settled; Dean hasn't had enough time to make peace. "Really out of the blue."

They both sit in sympathetic silence until the game's third quarter gets underway.

"What about you?" Dean interrupts a Chargers' drive. "Working with dead bodies isn't usually right up there with wanting to be an astronaut or a baseball player."

"Med school was in the cards the day I was born," Sam explains. "I'm the sixth Doctor Wesson, and every step of my education was planned accordingly." The bitterness of those days seeps into Sam's voice—being told he didn't have a choice, struggling under the weight of his family's expectations. "I thought telling my parents I wanted to do something different was suicide. They thought I was happy with their plans for me. So I went along with it until I—"

"Until you took a sharp left into the morgue," Dean finishes.

"Basically," laughs Sam, a short burst of feeling. "I'm still Doctor Wesson, but not the _right_ Doctor Wesson." He gestures with his fingers, rubbing invisible dollar bills against his thumb. "Now I'm the Doctor Wesson that doesn't get mentioned at parties, which is just fine by me."

"Cheers to that." The tip of Dean's bottle clinks on Sam's, and they both take long swallows.

"You were in Philly before this though, right?" Dean looks over when there's another break in the gridiron action. "Why the move?"

Now it's Sam's turn to shrug, lips sealed against spilling the details. _Way too soon_.

"I needed a change of scenery," he finally explains without much clarification. "Not to mention a break from having my family breathing down my neck, trying to steer me back towards being a physician."

"But you like your job?"

"Do you like _your_ job?" Sam fires back with a smirk. "I don't think it's a matter of like. I wanted to do this, and I think I'm good at it, the same way you are." He wouldn't believe it if he doesn't see it; Dean's blushing. Ducking his head and suddenly finding the beer label more interesting than Sam's face.

"It's not really a job you can like," Dean says thoughtfully. "You're right."

"But it's something that needs to be done, and I'm glad to be the one doing it."

Dean nods, volume of the game getting louder as the Chiefs finally drive into the endzone. For the rest of the game, their conversation ebbs and flows, never covering anything deeper than past football seasons and past cases. Sam leaves not long after the post-game show starts, contentment warring for space with apprehension in his mind.

Back at home, Sam grabs one of his tattered novels and tries to read, but all he can think about is Philadelphia—his old job, and _Paul_. Sam has tried to keep Paul out of his head for two years—he had learned his lesson and moved on. The memories Dean unknowingly dredged up are best kept subdued but the seal's been broken.

Sam was new to the job when he started with the Philly P.D.'s Office of the Coroner. Idealistic and eager, ready to make a difference and latching on to anyone he thought felt the same. That's how he met Paul. The toast of the Academy—a man who was 'going places.' Paul was young too, but his energy mixing with Sam's created an unstable fusion. Burning bright until the energy shifted.

But Sam liked Paul despite their occasional scraps. Until it became clear that Paul looked too much to the future, always trying to pad his career and stand out in the department. Regardless, Sam stuck by him even as the polish on his badge started to wear off in Sam's eyes. Then came the day Sam could never forget—Paul turning on him during a crucial case, throwing Sam's expertise to the wolves and blaming him for Paul's own missteps. All this in front of his colleagues. Ashamed and livid, Sam K.O.'ed Paul in front of a dozen cops and detectives. He knew his career in Philly was over before he got the official letter of reprimand, and Sam had been on his way to Kansas City before his termination hearing could be scheduled.

Remembering all of this, Sam begins to think that maybe he learned the wrong lesson with Paul. Cutting himself off, protected behind mortuary tables and in his small office, Sam has sentenced himself to a lonely life, but that's not what he wanted either. Back in Philly, all Sam wanted was Paul's respect and it was denied in a humiliating way. But Sam already knows Dean admires him—sees it in their easy camaraderie, stable energy instead of volatility. Sam has Dean's respect, and vice versa, and it's whet his appetite. Now, he wants more.

Sam's not an idiot—he has three degrees mounted in his office should he ever forget—and he knows the warmth in Dean's eyes. Has sent his own signals back to Dean. He never got that far with Paul though the Philly detective strung him along, and Sam's very glad. Paul was never supposed to be _that_ guy. Dean is.

It's time for Sam to learn a new lesson.

@@@

Sam has stopped keeping track of late nights. More than he can count over the last few weeks, and tonight he doesn't even bother changing out of his maroon scrubs before he flees the building. It's only when he reaches his car that Sam pulls out his phone and plays the voicemail Dean left over an hour ago.

_"Hey, can you meet me at my place?"_

It's short and to the point—so very _Dean_ —but Sam's ears pick out the sour tone, bitter and grumpy. Something's happened. He wonders if it has anything to do with the gossip that was spreading like a nasty flu virus around the complex earlier.

Sam doesn't show up empty handed, comes bearing food because he already knows what Dean likes when he's in a bad mood—a thick meatball marinara Italian from Antonelli's take out. The only parking spot this late in the evening is half a block away but from there Sam can see Dean slouched down on his front steps.

The sandwich is the first thing the detective notices after Sam drops beside him.

"Smells good." Dean grabs the bag without even asking if it's for him. Sam grins despite the heavy atmosphere.

The stone is cold beneath Sam's legs—his scrubs are no match for October weather—and he bounces them alternately, waiting for Dean to react. The Antonelli's bag is opened and Sam catches the quick smile on Dean's lips before he sets the food to the side, sighing. Facing the quiet street, lit up in intervals by milky streetlights, Sam lets the silence take them.

Distant sirens beat a dull reverberation somewhere in the darkness, reminding Sam of work he's left behind for the night—the work that's never truly left behind.

Dean sighs again. "I got put on mandatory leave tonight."

Yeah. Sam exhales his disappointment. The gossip hounds were right on.

"I heard rumors." No sense in hiding Dean from the truth. He wouldn't appreciate it. "What happened?"

"Apparently I got a little _rough_ with a suspect." Sam hears the sneer without looking over. "Damn son of a bitch was smacking his family around, finally put one of his kids in the hospital."

Another stretch of quiet as the wind picks up. Sam tucks his coat closer around his body and sees Dean squeeze his hands into fists, their clouded breath mixing and dissolving in the late-fall air.

"Doesn't sit right with me."

"It shouldn't."

There's a sort of grunt from Dean. Sam could say more, drag out everything Dean's not saying, but he doesn't. He sits and waits until the empty air between them gets under his skin.

"At least you're getting a break," Sam finally says.

A bitter laugh. "Not the kind of vacation I wanted, Sammy."

The corner of Sam's mouth twitches, the reflexive action whenever Dean calls him that. But the frown never comes; he's too concerned about the flatness in Dean's voice. The detective may have roughed up a piece of the city's scum, but he's the one sitting next to Sam looking like crap. Dean's trusting him with something, Sam gets that, and the nickname suddenly feels like an intimacy he shouldn't wave away.

"How long?"

"A week at least," Dean huffs, pulling his leather jacket around him and shifting further into Sam's side in the process. "Lieutenant said something about surrounding myself with too much stress when I'm at work—not having an outlet or some psycho-bullshit."

A week without Dean Winchester as a fixture isn't something that would have bothered Sam two months ago, before Dean started popping up during his shift on a regular basis. It's not something he's ever had to think about, but Sam realizes that he's made a space in his life for Dean to fit into. And he's not usually one for rearranging. Sam can't spend a week without Dean. All things considered, he doesn't want to spend the next ten minutes without him.

Dean's gaze is fixed on Sam when he looks up. Fine lines fan out from the corners of Dean's eyes, reaching for his temples. His expression is considering, as if he can follow the convoluted thoughts in Sam's head just by looking at him. As if he follows them to the same conclusion, Dean leans forward. Barely an inch, but it's enough.

That's when Sam kisses him.

It's difficult—they're pushing together at an awkward angle—and yet gentle at the same time. Lips on lips for a few seconds, the cold, dry air banished where their mouths meet, before Dean mutters something unintelligible and struggles to push away.

"Sam—Sammy, stop." Dean breaks the kiss but stays close, actions betraying words. "I'm not—Jesus, I'm just some dumb cop, Sam. You can't want—"

"You're not a dumb cop," Sam hisses.

Dean's eyes dart away, streetlights reflecting in the green irises. "Heard it enough times today."

"But you don't _believe_ it."

When Dean shrugs, Sam curses and squeezes the leather and flesh under his fingers. 

"I wish more detectives were like you, Dean." Everything Sam feels for Dean strengthens the conviction in his voice. "You come to me for more than a cause of death. You've made me a part of it, a part of getting justice, when everyone else just wants to hear 'he was shot' or 'she was stabbed.' You _care_ , and you know that I care—"

Sam can hardly take a breath before Dean's kissing him. It's good—it's _more_. Sam can taste the bitter hop of beer on Dean's tongue, and he's not sure when personal hygiene was last an issue for Dean. But it's okay. It's okay because Sam probably smells like the tissue fixative he used earlier and he hasn't washed his hair in two days. And Dean's still kissing him.

The world slows down a little bit when Sam licks his lips and Dean takes it as a sign to open his mouth. He can't feel the stone under him, the chilled air where it sneaks under fabric to prickle Sam's skin. There's only Dean's soft-stubble catching on Sam's chin and hands falling to novel places. Sam has never really imagined this, but when Dean's tongue slides along his teeth and makes Sam shiver he can't remember why he didn't. The new signaling triggers a cascade of feelings, waterfalling down from Sam's mind into his body, reaching out for Dean.

A cold gust of wind breaks them apart this time and Dean doesn't have to ask before Sam's up and following him inside. Across the threshold and into the light, Sam's courage starts to falter. Dean rubs the back of his neck and Sam knows that the detective's feeling the same way. It's not regret, just hesitation. Nothing like a dressing-down from the Powers That Be and a forced suspension to bring out even the smallest insecurities. Dean's probably ridden a roller coaster of emotions today—Sam can't throw more on his shoulders.

"Want a beer?" Dean's eyes shift from Sam to the wall and then to the refrigerator. His breathing's not quite steady—shaky and nervous, like Sam is going to be disappointed with the sudden change of momentum.

Sam injects as much understanding into his voice as he can muster.

"That would be great."

Dean passes out on his couch less than an hour later. They've talked—danced in circles with words around what brought them both into Dean's living room while their eyes still lingered with clear want and appreciation. Barefoot and warm, Sam remains in the recliner just watching Dean sleep. The dark smudges under the detective's eyes are more apparent, heavy breaths communicating sheer exhaustion. He's glad Dean feels comfortable enough to just let go when Sam's here. 

Fifteen minutes pass before Sam stands up, covering Dean with the soft throw from the back of the sofa. He navigates Dean's coffee maker and finds a travel mug to take some of the hot roast with him. 

When Dean wakes up, he'll find the note in Sam's messy handwriting on his living room table and Sam is only sorry he won't be there to see Dean smile when he reads it.

@@@

Ever since Sam broke his moratorium on imagining how things could go with Dean, he hasn't been able to stop. But in all his daydreams and hypotheticals, he never pictured things going like this.

_"Hey—take a breath."_

Sam does, and his exhale echoes across the phone's receiver.

_"Is that better?"_

"Not really," Sam grinds out, closing his eyes against the frustration. Like Paul all over again, Sam had been the target earlier of an ornery detective's frustrations at the precinct.

_"Man, I get why you're pissed,"_ Dean sympathizes over the line. _"Jackson's a chump. He's a biased, good old boy whose glory days are long gone and he's just biding his time until his pension kicks in."_

"It was embarrassing. He made me look like an idiot." Sam tries to take another deep breath before Dean suggests it. "My name was the only one on the evidence log—he didn't even bother to—"

_"Dude, I know."_ Dean cuts him off and Sam stews in silence for a few seconds. _"But anyone in the department who's worth their shit knows that Jackson's incompetent and that he's the one who fucked up, not you."_

Sam's doing his best to keep the whine out of his voice but Dean keeps on reassuring him.

_"Believe me, Sammy. You're a pro, everyone knows that."_

No, this definitely isn't what Sam pictured after their first kiss. He imagined crazy nights, barely leaving one another's company for days. Making out like they couldn't hold back and didn't want to. Sam dreamed of learning Dean's body to match what he already knows of Dean's heart and mind.

But he hasn't seen the detective in days, since the night they half-started this. Their relationship has taken to the air—phone calls their only interaction. It's not a bad thing, really. Dean was the first person Sam wanted to call after stomping into his house and throwing his bag hard enough to knock over one of his kitchen stools. Dean had listened and started to calm Sam down like it was his job all along.

Not always the most talkative person, Dean is rambling in Sam's ear now. What-not about something-or-another. Sam likes hearing Dean's voice like this. It's a little happier, carries less weight.

Sam jumps in. "When are you back at work?"

_"I don't know."_ Then a pause because Sam expects more. _"Hopefully the brass won't keep me on ice much longer. Have to go in and talk to Nina on Monday, and then we'll see."_

Nina Saulitos was one of the department's psychiatrists and Sam's good friend. He's relieved that Dean's meeting with her—probably one of the only shrinks that won't drive Dean crazy.

_"Cross your fingers, Sammy, and I'll be back bothering you in no time."_

It sounds like a joke but Sam twists his fingers together for a split-second anyway.

"Well, when you put it like that, take your time, detective."

When Dean laughs, Sam full out grins until his cheeks hurt and he thinks it's a sight Dean should be there to appreciate.

"Hey, did you want to come over, maybe have dinner?"

Sam is grateful that Dean doesn't immediately decline. But he doesn't say 'yes' either.

_"I've gotta—"_ then Dean sighs, thinking better of whatever he was going to say. _"Look Sam, you don't want to be around me right now. I've kind of had a really messed up week."_

As if Sam doesn't already know that—hasn't been a part of it. "I understand."

_"Do you?"_ Dean laughs again but it's got an edge, sharp and clipped. _"Sorry, I don't mean to be a dick. I just—"_

"If you don't want to tell me, I get it."

_But I wish you would_ remains unsaid.

_"No, it's not that. I would, Sam. I really would. I haven't really been myself—fuck, that's such a lame thing to say."_

Sam knows it's true though, and while he really likes this chatty, supportive Dean, it's not the Dean he's used to. Not the man he kissed on the cold, stone steps. But the Dean he's familiar with is supportive in his own way, silent and steady like Sam himself. Perhaps Dean realizes this too and doesn't want Sam to see it even more clearly.

He sighs and changes the subject, letting Dean settle his agitation with random stories from his days on the beat. The heavily one-sided conversation finally winds down when Sam's stomach rumbles loudly enough for Dean to hear over the phone.

"So—" Sam figures he's up to par with Dean on the lame comments tonight.

_"Yeah, guess I should let you go. Look man—"_

"Maybe we can—" Sam starts to say over Dean, but stops.

_"I'll see you back at work soon, Sam."_

And when Sam hears that, it makes him feel better than all of Dean's earlier reassurances combined.

@@@

Sam yawns, already regretting that he switched shifts with another M.E. without thinking. It's surprisingly quiet for a Monday night, highlighting the irony of the 'graveyard' shift. He's filed, reviewed, and replaced and there's nothing left for Sam to do but clean. The autopsy suite is nearly spotless in preparation for whatever comes through the doors.

The E.S. Posthumus pumping through the iPod and into Sam's ears provides the perfect soundtrack to lose count of minutes passing. Only a couple hours left to wile away before Sam can race the sunrise on his way home.

Sam keeps sending his thoughts to the deepest parts of his mind but they boomerang back; he's tried not to think about Dean but intent is hardly action. They've only talked casually the last couple of days, and part of him doesn't blame the detective for throwing the distance up between them—Sam had entertained the thought that they rushed into things. Only after dwelling on it for far too long this weekend, Sam concluded that they really _hadn't_.

He's never been one for dating—no one fit well in Sam's life. Too many round pegs and only square holes. Dean hasn't molded to Sam or vice versa. He's just misshapen like Sam. Kept in a separate crate because they don't match all the other blocks. Their non-dating fits their lifestyle, and it's been going on longer than any relationship Sam's had since college. Sam knows what he wants, but if he and Dean need time getting there well, it's not the worst thing in the world.

The buzzer of the suite doors is audible over his music, and Sam glances up to see Dean hovering just inside.

"Can I come in?"

"You've never asked before," Sam answers matter of factly.

"I've always been on the job before," Dean responds, reminding Sam of his situation.

"That shouldn't stop you."

Sam gets a small smile and Dean's stepping closer, hesitating over the scuff marks that outline his usual boundary. He crosses over. There's something softer about his appearance—jeans whose thick denim has been worn down back to soft cotton, a t-shirt that might once have been green but has since faded to a perfect sea gray, and his trademark leather jacket. Sam's hero, after hours.

The silence isn't awkward, but it's filling up with things Sam wants to say. Dean's looking at him fondly, as if comparing Sam to some old memory and finding the memory lacking.

"Dean—"

"I talked to Nina." Dean clears his throat, cutting Sam off. "She—I guess she recommended to the Lieutenant that I take a few more days."

"Maybe it's—"

"Don't say it's 'for the best', Sam, please..." Dean sighs, weariness weighing on him like a blanket.

"Dean—" Sam tries again, waiting for the detective's eyes to meet his. He can't see the Dean he's used to, but there are small clues: showing up unannounced, not using ten words when five will do. The swagger isn't there yet, confidence still bruised from last week's reprimand.

Whatever energy Dean was trying to muster evaporates when Sam speaks, gone with a sigh.

"Do we have to talk, Sammy?" At least the familiar nickname makes Sam's heart jump when once it just boiled his blood. "I swear I've been talking to shrinks and the brass all fucking night and I just—"

The frustration isn't with Sam, but it stings nonetheless. Dean laughs, low and self-deprecating as if he can't believe what he's about to say.

"I just wanted to see you. I haven't—fuck, all I wanted to do was get out of here, but I couldn't. Then I remembered you were working, and I thought if I just came by then I might actually be able to sleep."

It's a confession so simple yet full of sentiment that Sam is speechless. For someone averse to talking, Dean's put so much out there. It's not a question now of whether or not Sam _wants_ , but he has to be sure.

"Dean, what do you want from me?"

The question hangs over them like a rain-cloud filled to burst, but Dean shakes his head and the skies clear.

"Sam, I—just you, okay? I just want you."

It's the best answer Sam could have hoped for and the last one he expects.

"I have no family left," Dean goes on, breathing easier when Sam steps closer. "I used to wonder who would care if anything happened to me, and I came up with no one. Then I found you, and I wanted you to be that person. I wanted you to see me, and know me, and just care."

"I do." Sam struggles over the lump in his throat.

"What?"

"Care—I do. Shit, you have no idea how much."

"If it's anything like the way I care about you," Dean mutters self-consciously, a rookie when it comes to saying such things, "then I'm getting the picture."

Sam has had enough of staying calm, keeping his hands to himself.

"Had enough of talking yet?"

"Fuck, yes." Dean exhales, shoulders slumping as the invisible strings are cut.

This kiss is different—not hard or soft, or even mind-blowing, but Sam already knows it's something he'll never forget. Dean's looking straight into his eyes when their lips touch, and Dean's hands come up slowly until his fingers are scratching Sam's sideburns, cupping around his ears as if he's thought about touching Sam before and finally turning thought into action. Sam's nose brushes Dean's cheek as he tilts his head, hands clutching the soft leather that's always in his sense memory. He shifts back enough to see that Dean's eyes are clear—tired, but sober and happy—before kissing him again. The muscles under Sam's fingers move easy and loose as Dean pulls him closer. Neither of them try to deepen the kiss; Sam's limbs feel warm and tingling just from catching Dean's lower lip lightly with his teeth, opening his eyes to see the detective's airy smile. Dean retaliates for the gentle attack by surging up on his toes to curl his tongue into Sam's mouth.

They step and swerve blindly until Dean backs into a table, sending the clean tools clattering across the metal. Sam's head falls to Dean's shoulder, temple to collarbone, and he laughs.

"Can't believe this..." Sam feels more than hears Dean mutter.

"Hmm?"

"We're in the morgue."

"Technically, we're in an empty suite, but—"

"Still," Dean fixes the room with a look of distaste. "Office?"

"Dean—" He's reluctant to lean back, the light scratch of Dean's fingers feels far too good over his lower back. "I'm working." He won't mention the fact that Dean's neck is bowed forward, eyelids heavy over bright irises; exhaustion has worn Dean down to this softer, tame man. Sam keeps contact, fingers sliding down to the leather cuff at Dean's wrist and they study one another for a quiet moment.

"I'm starving..." Dean gripes, folding back against the steel table. "Feels like I haven't eaten in days."

It might be true from the way Dean's been preoccupied with his suspension. The second hand slows when Sam eyes the clock, time intent on keeping him here.

"How about this?" He offers, squeezing the strong bones under his fingers. "I've only got an hour left. Grab some food, or whatever you want, and I'll meet you at your place, and we can—" _Talk? Sleep? Do nothing?_ Sam's not even sure what he's asking for.

Dean chokes over a laugh. "Not sure you want to see my place right now, Sammy."

"My house, then." He has to move away to grab paper and a pen, scribbling his address. "There's a spare key hidden in the porch light on the left side."

The piece of paper is treated as something delicate and sacred in Dean's hands—a piece of evidence too fragile to handle.

"You sure?"

There's a lot hidden in that question, but Sam nods right away. "Yeah, just don't bother Angela when you go in."

"Angela?" Dean's eyebrows come together. "She your housekeeper or something?"

"You'll see." Sam grins and spins away before he can kiss Dean again and distract himself for another hour. A moment later, he hears Dean galumph out of the room, doors sliding smoothly shut behind him.

@@@

The orange glow on the horizon has faded to a bright yellow wash when Sam pulls into his driveway. Dean's old black truck sits in the street, considerately leaving the garage accessible for Sam. He walks into the house and the mixed aromas of fresh coffee and flour tickle his nose.

"Sorry," is the first thing Dean says when Sam steps up on the other side of the kitchen island. Dean's hand waves over the griddle and the oblong pancakes swiftly rising atop it. "I couldn't just sit, and the only thing open was the Schnuck's up the road."

"So, pancakes?" Sam shakes his head and smiles.

"Blueberry pancakes," Dean gestures. "And coffee. Decaf, 'cause I think the regular might kill me at this point."

Ten minutes and one long explanation of why Dean always has to make pancakes from scratch later, they're in Sam's living room. Plastic trays balance on their knees while they eat and talk, Sam letting the coffee add to the warmth in his gut.

"Angela, I presume?" Dean remarks when a dark and rather cross-eyed Siamese stalks out from behind the couch and sniffs Dean's sock gingerly.

"She was my brother's cat." Sam watches Angela hover, processing and judging all the scents she can find surrounding Dean. Finally she rubs her head against Dean's ankle and even Sam can hear her purring. _Yeah, I know the feeling_. "He got her in high school, but his wife turned out to be allergic and I took her."

"So, you have a cat." Dean spears a fluffy forkful of pancakes, syrup soaking the edges. "Anything else I need to know?"

There are dozens of things Sam can tell him, but he's not willing to ruin their calm morning with talk of Philadelphia or Paul. He wants to relax—be with Dean the way he first imagined nearly a week ago. Maybe not the 'crazy nights' part, but Sam could definitely go for some making out and quiet conversation.

He lets his eyes settle on Dean's mouth, sticky shine at the corner. "You'll just need to figure that out."

Dean glances over and grins like he doesn't mind the challenge at all. He stands and clears their trays, dropping back next to Sam with a soft thump.

"Anything new on the Doe while I was getting my head shrunk?"

It's the first time Dean's mentioned the case since last week. Sam regrets that he's made no progress, but Dean takes the news with an indifferent shrug and a sigh, waving off Sam's sincere apologies.

"Not your thing, Sam. Hell, at least you gave me something to work with. C.S.U. didn't get me jack and Jimmy thinks the case is all in my hands."

"Maybe you should step back—" Sam's seen more than one detective lose themselves to an unsolved. Obsession's dangerous on both sides of the law.

"Nothing to step back from. I just want to give that guy a name. No one deserves to be buried nameless. Isn't there someone out there giving a damn that this guy's—" He groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and Sam finds an important piece of Dean's insecurities. The detective must see himself on Sam's table, unclaimed and anonymous. "I need a name, that's all."

"You'll get it." Sam's willing to give the reassurance over and over until it proves true.

Dean's head lolls against the back of the sofa, yawning; Sam watches the stretch of his throat.

"Sorry, Sammy. Guess I'm crashing sooner than I expected." He pats the fabric next to his thigh. "Mind if I grab a nap on the couch?"

"No, but if you want—"

"It'll be fine, trust me."

The distance is sneaking back between the two of them again. Sam imagines it's something they might be working to banish for a while.

"Dean, nothing's changed, you know. I still want—"

The detective's not meeting his eyes, but he nods. "Yeah, I know. Just taking me a bit to wrap my head around things. I don't do this, you know, ever."

Sam would bet good money that Dean's going to fall asleep right there; his eyes slide away from Sam's.

"I mean, I wasn't even sure—" Dean thinks better of himself and stops, sagging into Sam's sofa. The importance of whatever he was about to say is visible in the way Dean bites his lower lip, considering, like it'll stop him from talking.

"Not sure about what?" A hard knot starts to form in Sam's stomach. "About me?"

"Yeah—" Dean admits on an exhale, quickly looking up at Sam before he deflates. "Not anymore, trust me. But the night I got suspended, I thought maybe..."

"Maybe I didn't kiss you for the right reason," Sam fills in the blanks, sure as if he's holding the answer key.

"Felt like a reassurance," Dean responds quietly. "I needed it though. Man, that night—" he trails off in remembrance while Sam does the same. Recalls how his head had swirled on Dean's doorstep. "I wanted to say something to you before that, but I couldn't. I felt—" The detective shakes his head, handpicking the right word. "Inadequate, I guess. The job's all I have, and I screwed that up."

"It's not about the job," Sam interjects before Dean slides back into self-deprecation. "You and me—maybe we didn't start this the right way, but we started. And I'm sure."

Sam manages to intercept one serious look from Dean before he starts muttering.

"I thought we were fucking done with talking. You gonna let me sleep now?"

Exasperated but understanding, Sam leaves him to it, more than ready to fall face-down into oblivion himself. He shuffles awkwardly to his bedroom, half hoping to hear Dean's steps behind him. But there's nothing besides the faithful ticking of his hall clock when he lays down, door propped open. Five minutes later he's out, face turned towards the hall, sunlight seeping in through the blinds and getting brighter by the second.

It's a prickling sensation that wakes Sam—a subtle change in the air when Dean stumbles quietly into the room. He hears a hissed curse before Dean snaps the blinds shut and stretches out next to Sam. Stripped to boxers and his t-shirt, Dean's skin is warm where Sam's feet touch his calves.

"Something wrong?" Sam mumbles more coherently that he expects. 

"Your cat." Dean abuses Sam's pillow until it lays right beneath his head. "Kept starin' at me. Fuckin' creepy."

Only half awake, Sam fumbles to sit up but halts with the gentle pressure of Dean's hand on his arm.

"Go back to sleep," he breathes. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Kay—" Sam's losing the fight to stay awake, and he's asleep again soon after his head meets pillow.

@@@

Sam hasn't gotten nearly enough practice waking up next to someone. That much is obvious when he opens his eyes and sees that he's only millimeters away from a stretch of ocean-gray cotton over freckled skin. He panics, heart flailing behind his ribs for a moment before Dean cracks an eye and shushes him.

"...Time's it?" Dean mutters before his face and body go tense in a waking stretch.

"Little after noon," Sam yawns and consults his alarm clock.

Dean looks better with a few hours of sleep and Sam's never gotten the chance to watch him so closely. There's a routine in the way Dean moves, pulling and relaxing his muscles while his body tries to fight off the last touches of rest. The momentary trepidation Sam felt doesn't seem to be affecting Dean; he looks over at Sam and casually sits up, shirt bunching at the bend of his waist. His hair spikes in stray peaks, a fleck or two of gray here and there as a testament to experience and age, and flattened on the right side from Sam's pillow. There's a goofy lopsided smile on his face when he glances down at Sam.

"Gonna lay there all day?"

"Thinking about it," Sam quips, pushing himself up to sit next to Dean. "Something wrong with that?"

"Nope." 

He isn't ready for the kiss when Dean leans forward, connecting with the corner of Sam's mouth instead of straight on. A subtle adjustment, shift of Dean's hips, and it's closer to perfect. The taste of syrup is gone from Dean's lips, leaving only the bitterness of waking up, but Sam doesn't mind. It's warm and lazy and he has half a mind to stay in bed until his shift tomorrow morning—a decadence he hasn't considered in years. But Dean breaks off after his tongue's gotten its fill of Sam, and sighs.

"Wish I could join you, but I need to get home."

"You can stay—"

"I want to, but I think I need to get my place straightened up." Dean sounds sadly amused. "Start living like a human again. I'm pretty sure my house could be considered 'squalor' right now."

"That bad?"

Dean might be about to joke back with 'you have no idea', but he doesn't. He sees something in Sam's eyes that stops him—recognition that Sam does have an idea.

"I'm back on the job Friday morning," Dean finally says. "So I've got a few days. Feel like doing something tomorrow when you get off?"

In the hazy rays of sunshine that diffuse through the blinds and fall on his bed, Sam answers with a kiss of his own, keeping Dean pined for just a little longer.

@@@

_"I'm already getting sick of the kid gloves."_

"It's only been half a day—aren't you busy?"

_"Didn't stop anyone from calmly asking how I've been,"_ Dean snorts and the line crackles. _"Maybe they all think I'm one step away from cracking down the center and throwing chairs through one-way mirrors."_

"Or they've missed you." Sam offers, shifting the piles of week's end paperwork around on his kid-sized desk, laptop balanced precariously on one corner.

_"Pffft, right."_ There's a muffled voice somewhere on Dean's end. _"Hey look, Sam, I have to get going. A lead just popped up and if I'm a good boy, Jimmy might even let me drive!"_

It drips with Dean's personal brand of wry sarcasm and Sam hears Avila laughing in the background. Sam hangs up, chuckling to himself, and as he sets the phone back in its cradle his wrist bumps a carefully balanced stack of folders, sending the whole lot careening to the floor. Swearing and cursing whatever cretins thought that this desk would work for a man over six feet tall, he bends to gather his things when a small blue post it catches his eye. Clinging to the side of his pressboard torture desk, the post-it has one simple note in Sam's messy scrawl: _Email Liz re: D.P.R._

Oh, _shit_.

Cursing for an entirely new reason, Sam folds in on himself, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. He had completely forgotten about Liz—Elizabeth Sinclair, one of Sam's instructors at Penn State. She specialized in certain genetic disorders, with a keen interest in mapping their progression through families, tracking individuals. And one disorder she was particularly interested was the very condition that made Sam and Dean's John Doe so tricky to identify.

_Shit!_

Quickly rousing his computer from sleep mode, Sam pulls files and searches for his address book. An email will take too long—Sam snatches up his phone again and starts dialing.

@@@

"Fuck, Dean. I'm so sorry—"

"You've got to stop saying that."

The squadroom's nearly empty. Only a few detectives and officers pass through with cups of coffee, fragrant steam wafting to the corner where Sam sits in the hideous avocado chair across from Dean. The detective's fingers move rapidly over his keyboard, punching keys with a singular focus and not even looking up at Sam.

"Where'd you say you got this list?"

"From a former instructor," Sam grumbles, watching Dean's eyes dart to the paper then back to his screen. His face reflects the bright display, eerily blue in the dim room. The only light comes from the lamp over Dean's desk and a few more turned on across the room where others work with the same dedication. "She's had patients with D.P.R.—keeps track of certain families since it's genetic. I meant— _fuck_. I meant to email her weeks ago about this but I just—"

" _Stop_ it." Dean doesn't even pause, pulling up photo after photo trying to get a match like a twisted game of Memory.

The list beside his computer is Liz's contribution; a rundown of men in the Midwest that might fit their John Doe who's now buried in a plain box in the city's cemetery. Sam delivered it to Dean the second he printed it, apologies starting before he even sat down. Now he can do nothing but sit while Dean runs down DMV photos and hopes for a match. Sam's fingers and toes are crossed. It all feels so familiar: the self doubt and second guessing. He's back in Philadelphia for a moment, looking at Paul's accusing brown eyes and just waiting for that final double-cross.

"But this has made you miserable."

"A lot of stuff makes me miserable." The plastic tapping stops for a moment and Dean leans back, chair squeaking with protest. "Bad guys, long lines at the deli. Whenever the Jets win. This isn't on you."

"But I could have—"

"No, you couldn't." Dean slams the door on Sam's self-reproach. "That's the job, Sam. It sucks. Hell, that's another thing that makes me miserable. It's a good thing I didn't come into this job expecting rainbows and puppies."

Dean's eyes focus on Sam across the top of the screen waiting for Sam to laugh along with him. But Sam can't, stuck in memory and recrimination. He shakes off the weight of Dean's gaze.

"Have you found anything yet?"

"No matches," Dean crosses off another name, "but I'm only a third of the way through your list."

Another five minutes, two additional names crossed off the list, and Sam's fidgeting finally seems to grate on Dean's nerves.

"Sam—" he says, softly. "Go home."

"I want to wait."

"I don't know how long this is gonna take, and you've been here all day." His green eyes, bright with the computer's plasma illumination, broker no argument and Sam slumps.

"Call me if you get something?"

Dean salutes with a quick gesture and Sam shoulders his bag with tired arms. When he walks out, Sam feels Dean watching him, something heavy in the observation, but he doesn't turn around and Dean doesn't stop him. Sam pushes through the glass doors of the precinct and not even a lungful of crisp air makes him feel better.

@@@

Stretched out on his couch with the eleven o'clock news muted, Sam sips from the whiskey tumbler and listens to his front door swing open, hears boots clunk on the linoleum as they're toed off. Dean calls out, following the flash of the television into the living room. He pauses alongside the coffee table, reaching down to spin Sam's bottle label-forward.

"Whiskey?"

"Doctor's orders."

"Cute." The leather coat drops on a side chair and Dean wedges himself between Sam and the armrest. "Feel like explaining what's up with you?"

"Why are you even here?" Sam asks, trying to keep from sounding so surprised but failing epically.

"I wasn't getting anywhere with your list, and I was tired," Dean offers.

"You just stopped...without a result?"

"Sam—you know it'll be there on Monday, more names to check. I'll get it."

"Doesn't sound like the Detective Winchester I know."

"Yeah, well..." Dean scratches the back of his neck, arm rubbing against Sam's. "I was worried. Tomorrow's Saturday and I figured..."

"Hmm?" Sam drains his glass, finishing the single finger he'd poured to fog up the comparison's his mind was trying to make between Philadelphia and now. "Figured what?"

"Figured you might want to tell me why you kept apologizing back there. You know you apologize a lot, right? And you never need to," Dean adds sincerely. "But you were more worked up than I was, and that's saying something."

"I—" Sam begins, but he realizes that only the truth is going to fly with Dean. It's what the detective deserves.

The story of Paul comes out in fragments, haphazardly worded but clear enough for Dean to keep nodding. His fingers curl over Sam's thigh while he listens, rubbing small, nonsensical patterns over the worn cotton scrubs, pajamas left over from school and so much softer than the pristine pairs Sam wears in autopsy. Sam's voice feels oddly flat when he covers the Philadelphia detective's humiliating betrayal, but he watches Dean's face throughout as he begins to realize why Sam had been so concerned about his mistake.

"Not a mistake, Sam," is all Dean says when Sam finishes. He's a little grateful for the silence; Sam can see from Dean's expression, accepting eyes and loose mouth, that he _understands_ and it's enough.

Dean clicks off the news in the middle of the sports wrap up.

"Come on, time for bed."

Sam lets himself be led away towards the stairs, careful not to trip over Angela who's sprawled over a heating vent in the hallway. It's not until they're walking into Sam's bedroom that it finally hits him: the idea that Dean would put his concern for Sam over the case, even after—

He stops, jerking back with Dean's hand still clasped around his wrist, feeling the bones move with the sudden pause. Before Dean can utter a protest, Sam pushes him against the bedroom door, staring down through the dim light and reading enough interest in Dean's eyes to kiss him.

The niceties of foreplay get lost between them; Sam's not sure if Dean even appreciates that sort of thing. He's too overwhelmed and he feels no resistance when his tongue pushes past Dean's lips. Sam has got something here, right in front of him, and his fingers clasp tightly around Dean's arms, forcing his elbows against the paneled wood door with a dull crack. But Dean makes no move to muscle him away. Instead he grinds harder until they're fused from lips to knees.

All traces of tiredness evaporate with the sudden heat. Dean doesn't break the seal of their mouths to breathe; the quick exhales through his nose hit Sam's cheek in warm bursts. Sam pulls back when Dean starts arching against his thighs, back bowed away from the door creating a space for Sam's hands.

"You said something about going to bed?"

Dean's mouth quirks and Sam has to kiss the tight skin over the corner. They stumble together across the half-dozen feet to the bed, toppling onto the mattress as Dean's hands shimmy Sam's t-shirt over his head and skim across the drawstring of his pants.

"I like these," Dean breathes on a moan, fingers flirting with the scrubs' knotted ties. "Easy access."

That statement does bode well for Sam while he's at work considering he wears scrubs half the time. He rolls Dean onto his back, rubbing cotton on wool to feel the hint of Dean's dick. It's not long before Sam undoes the buttons on Dean's shirt, draping it over his shoulders to reveal Dean's solid form.

"Come on, Sam—" Dean is groaning, jerking his hips up into Sam's. His head falls back on the pillow, giving Sam's mouth the perfect place to start.

His lips touched the shadowed skin beneath Dean's jaw where the stubble is softer and hints of aftershave remain. Slightly bitter on his tongue, Sam moves down to the tune of Dean's whispered nonsense—amused and a little disbelieving that the normally taciturn detective finds his voice at the most _interesting_ times. Smiling at the thought, Sam shifts lower, letting his hands unfasten and unzip Dean's slacks. His fingers slide beneath to palm warm, clammy skin and Sam uses his mouth to map the edges of Dean's body, contours he's only experienced with the cover of clothes across professional distance.

What he feels for Dean gets transmitted in every touch, transcribed on Dean for the first of many investigations. Sam's lips bump and move over every indentation between Dean's ribs, counting them down until he's biting into more supple skin covering Dean's stomach. Rise and dip with Dean's deep breathing, Sam's chin bobs over Dean's abdomen and his mouth enfolds Dean's navel.

The hands running over Sam's shoulders and in his hair don't steer. Dean accepts every touch, shudders every time Sam's teeth take light hold of his skin. Dean's slacks don't last much longer against Sam's desire to get Dean naked; they fall haphazardly to the floor along with Dean's socks. Sam spends a moment just looking, ignoring the pressure of Dean's thighs bracketing his legs, trying to incite further movement. Dean's cock is half hard under his boxer briefs, thickening where it rests over the top of his thigh. The detective's eyes follow Sam's fingers when they reach forward to touch, soft at first then firm, stroking across Dean's erection and curling his fingers under. The hitches in Dean's breath and the intensity of his stare drive away the rest of Sam's patience and he strips Dean's underwear quickly.

Sam's fingers and mouth drift in tandem over the strong, solid roundness of Dean's stomach, a low slope down to a valley of soft hair around his erection. His own dick rubs against his scrubs, pressing down into the sheets but he doesn't care. His mouth is desperate and eager to be around Dean the way he's been imagining for days. Sam also doesn't care that Dean is suddenly all about equal participation; he holds Dean's thrusting hips in place with an elbow, a shoulder.

"Holy shi—" Sam increases the pressure when Dean curses and bucks. "You can't—fuck, Sam."

Dean's cock is heavy on his tongue. Sam learns and traces ridges and veins with saliva to slick the way. He hasn't gotten to do this much but Dean is bigger than he's used to. Stretching his lips, hitting his cheek—Sam tests how deep he can take Dean before his throat protests, then goes a little further just for the _feel_ of it.

Apparently determined to do something, Dean grabs one of Sam's hands where it's gripping his hip and yanks it up. Fucking distracting is what it ends up being when Dean commences his own oral assault on Sam's fingers—tongue over Sam's knuckles, teeth catching on his nails. Everything Sam has imagined goes out the window as he realizes this is hotter and better than anything his mind came up with.

"Yeah—get 'em wet," Sam rasps, pulling off Dean's dick—no idea where the dirty thought comes from. 

The way Dean moans when Sam says it makes him shudder, and the shapes Dean's mouth form around Sam's fingers drive him closer to _want, now!_ It's tempting to finish Dean with his mouth, but Sam files that for another time. His fingers are warm and wet when he pulls them from Dean's mouth, sliding up Dean's frame to kiss him again. Precious seconds are wasted as Sam has to pull away to work his pants off, Dean watching the soft fabric get peeled away to expose all of Sam. But Sam doesn't give him a chance to explore or even appreciate the view—he rolls them side by side, pulling Dean's thigh on top of his own. Still-wet fingers push behind Dean's cock, along sensitive skin before tapping against his ass.

"Sam—Sam..." Dean keeps whispering his name, the word wrenched out of his throat when Sam pushes one, then two fingers into Dean. In and out slowly until Sam's name becomes nothing more than a broken syllable.

It's not quite what Sam wants either—rather, he _wants_ but there's no way he'll last long enough. A moment is all it takes for Sam to reach to the beside drawer and grab the lubricant. Dean catches on quickly, letting Sam drizzle the gel over both their hands. The first touch of Dean's slick palm around Sam's erection is cool, swiftly heated through friction and Sam returns the favor. His lubed hand strokes and fondles Dean's thickness.

Yeah, this is what Sam needs. He gets to see Dean—eyes tightly closed, the detective's breath a hiss of escaping air—and read in his face what drives him crazy. And Dean dishes it right back, squeezing his fingers around Sam and pulling until Sam just falls apart. Sam moves against Dean, panting and trying to keep their mouths together but it doesn't happen. Rubbing off on Dean through his orgasm, Sam gets to feel Dean come as well, shooting over Sam's hand and their stomachs.

As the frenzy bleeds out of their bodies, Sam can kiss Dean properly again, ignoring the fact that they're going to end up sticky and gross if they don't move. He worries for a split-second that Dean might be appalled by Sam jumping him, but that thought's banished when Dean relaxes into the kiss, tongue moving as languidly as Sam's.

Dean laughs into Sam's mouth when the kissing eases and Sam really likes the smile he catches when he opens his eyes. Still chuckling, Dean pulls away slightly and dips his head.

"I feel used," Dean exhales against Sam's sweat-slicked neck, lips sliding along his skin. "I feel _awesome_ , but I feel used."

"I'll make it up to you," Sam yawns, able to feel Dean's smile.

"You bet you're gonna. I've got plans."

"Plans?"

"Big ones," Dean echoes Sam's yawn, moving slightly away to let the cooler air slip between them and over their skin.

"Am I allowed to hear them?"

"Mmhmm." Dean shakes his head on the pillow. "We fallin' asleep like this?"

Sam doesn't particularly have the gumption to move and Dean takes his silence as a 'you bet your ass.' The detective only grumbles for a second—all for show—before making himself comfortable as if the right side of the bed has been his all along. And that's the thought that Sam falls asleep with, hiding his grin in the pillow.

@@@

Some days it's not worth it.

There's no end to the senseless violence at the heart of Sam's job, and every new body makes things look bleaker than the last. New cases replace the old and each small victory is shadowed amidst greater tragedy.

But he doesn't quit. Sam never even considers quitting because there are victories. Dean never waited until Monday to get an I.D. on John Doe—he left for the precinct that Saturday afternoon and went through the rest of Sam's list. Sam understood—couldn't blame Dean for working through the weekend because it was still _Dean Winchester_ he was talking about. He definitely couldn't blame Dean when he came back on Saturday night with a name and a clear weight off his shoulders, not to mention a _plan_ involving Sam and the couch.

And more than anything, he _has_ Dean. Sam gets to leave work behind and be with the man who looks like an icon but in reality is so much more. This is the career he imagined, imperfect and agonizing, but he's now able to see heroes in different guises and knows that to someone, Sam is worthy of the same title. He makes a difference and if he ever doubts himself, Dean is right there to correct him without hesitation.

Tonight, three months after this thing started, Sam gets home first. The day itself has been uneventful and Sam goes through his routine of making dinner, setting aside a second plate for Dean whenever he shows up and hunkering down on the couch with a book. It's one of Dean's—science fiction being his boyfriend's favorite escapist genre. Sam's dog-eared books have been boxed up and stored in the guest room in anticipation of tonight. No special occasion, just a decision nearly a month in the making. The key is already on Dean's keychain, slipped on early this morning when Sam left Dean sprawled out over his bed, still snoring. Dean'll figure it out soon enough—Sam's detective is a smart man.

Sam waits, getting lost in the book's narrative until he hears the metallic scrape of that key at his door. Sighing, he sets the novel aside and waits until Dean steps up behind him, running tired fingers through Sam's hair. He's come to realize the familiar action holds as much comfort for Dean as it does for him.

"You trying to tell me something, Sammy?"

The only reflex the nickname causes now is a wide smile splitting Sam's lips. His head falls back on the cushion and he meets Dean's eyes.

"'Cause all you have to do is ask."

And Sam does.

 

FIN.


End file.
